A Knight's Vow Page 15

  Although it was a bitter truth that all in Hardspen doubtless knew of the wretched wedding night between Guillelm and herself, she saw no reason to proclaim the tale. Modesty and self-protection-protection for Guillelm, too, against possible sly jibes-had prompted her to place her silk veil on the crown of her head, as befitted a married woman. Instinct, though, had suggested she fold the veil into no more than a small square, held by a narrow copper coronet.

  Below this delicate, narrow head rail she had divided her hair into four plaits, each spiraled about with ribbons. Lord Robert, Guillelm’s scarce-lamented father and her former “protector,” had taken her hair ornaments from her, along with her jewels. She had made more by sacrificing two scarves and cutting them into ribbons.

  Quickly, Guillelm brushed his lips against one of her plaits and then, almost as if that contact would be too much for her, swung her gently to the ground. “I must continue,” he said. “I would see Thierry soon, make certain he is still sure of where he is, and who he is with.”

  “I understand completely,” Alyson replied, briefly envying Thierry his lord’s concern before good sense took hold of her again. There was a difference between being attentive to Guillelm and becoming his very shadow. Besides, if she left for the castle first, he might wonder where she had gone, and surely a little doubt on his part was good?

  Quitting the tilting ground, aware of Fulk watching her leave, Alyson could only hope so.

  Chapter 14

  As Alyson was passing the bathhouse, encouraging a lagging page to keep up, Sericus stopped her.

  “My lady.” He drew her apart from the pages, his wrinkled, gray-bearded face warped with concern. “Grave news”

  Alyson braced herself. Was Tilda safe and well at St. Foy’s? Had Thierry gone berserk again? Or did the news concern King Stephen or the Empress Maud? Had the warring forces come closer to Hardspen?

  “Yes, Sericus?” she asked, when her gray-headed seneschal did not speak.

  “Edwin the shepherd has seen a wolf at the edge of the common land and forest. He is sure,” Sericus continued, guessing Alyson’s first question. “He knows there have been no wolves in these parts for many years, but he saw a pack when he was a boy. He swears to me there is no mistake.” Sericus hopped nervously from one foot to the other, favoring his less withered leg. “Already he is short a dozen lambs.”

  Alyson sighed. “I am sorry for that” She was, too, and there was no easy answer. Edwin was keen-sighted but had no skill with bow and arrow and less with a sling and slingshot.

  “He has no shepherd lad or lass with him to guard his lambs?” she asked.

  “I fear not and now the wolf grows bold, my lady. Only yesterday, Edwin saw it carry off a lamb in bright daylight. Also, he says that a widow from Setton Minor was terrorized the day after the feast-day of Saint Mary Magdalene-by a `huge black beast, like a dog but with more teeth,’ as she took flowers to a wayside shrine of St. Foy.”

  And was the widow also paying a visit to Eva the wisewoman in the woods there? Alyson thought, but she said nothing.

  Sericus crossed himself and continued. “The woman was on the road when the beast came at her; she managed to toss a stone at it and drive it into the thickets, but she was badly shaken”

  “So it may be only a matter of days before it attacks someone: a child gathering berries, an old woman seeking firewood.” Alyson frowned, imagining the damage a hungry wolf could inflict on such innocents.

  “I shall speak to my lord,” she told Sericus, with more assurance than she felt. Guillelm was kind and mindful of his people, but whom could he spare to go on a wolf hunt? Perhaps that was how she should ask present it as a challenge and “good sport” to tempt Guillelm and his men into tracking the beast.

  “I will speak to him when I may,” she promised, squeezing Sericus’s shoulder in brief reassurance as she continued on her way to the castle keep.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Alyson was kept busy with questions from her maids concerning the flax and wool spinning and also the anxious head cook, who seemed convinced that with Guillelm and his men having lived in Outremer, they would expect an Eastern feast every day. She spent an hour in the lean-to where she made her potions, checking the drying and steeping herbs, then time in the shade of the bathhouse with the oldest laundress, who had a complaint that “some vile, low knaves” had smeared fire-ash onto the bed linen she was drying on bushes by the river. As a piece of malicious mischief, Alyson thought it grotesque, and she listened most sympathetically to the woman’s tirade, promising to speak to her lord about it and offering her the copper bangle from her own wrist in recompense of the laundress’s wasted labor. She would have liked to have given the laundress money, but she had no coins. Lord Robert had taken the few silver pennies she owned.

  With these matters and other tasks, Alyson realized with a start that it was close to sunset. Expecting to find Guillelm in the stables, tending to Caliph, she was surprised he was not there. Jezebel, her own horse, whickered happily to see her and she could not resist giving the mare some attention, brushing her coat and combing out the tangles in her mane. The stable lad protested when he found her working, but not too much. She was the well-loved lady of Hardspen and, moreover, he knew that she would willingly tend his hurts if a horse kicked or bit him.

  Backing away from the stables, Alyson thought too late of her gown. Berating her own folly, she looked herself over, relieved that the dress was still clean and wholesome. Not so her hands-they needed a soak.

  Within the keep, she climbed the stairs swiftly straight to her chamber, longing to see Guillelm again as she passed the entrance of the great hall but not sneaking a peep in case she was spotted. True, her dragon had seen her with potionstained fingers when she was child, but she doubted if the mysterious Heloise had ever appeared to him thus. Perhaps she should add even more ribbons to her hair, or would that merely make her husband laugh?

  “I could try it and see,” she said aloud, stepping off the stair onto the narrow stone landing outside the main bedchamber hers now, and Guillelm’s, if he should ever rest in it again. Would he do so tonight? Where had he slept on their wedding night? Had he slept?

  The panic had been with her all day, the dread unacknowledged but horribly present. She had tried to keep occupied, but that and all the foolish beauty aids and girlish plans had been no more than ploys to stop her dwelling on the question, What would happen between them tonight? Would he come?

  Her fragile confidence faltered, crashing completely as she saw the figure standing outside the chamber, “guarding” the door.

  Checking that the door was indeed closed, Fulk stepped toward her.

  “My lord is resting and would not be disturbed,” he said.

  “But he will come to supper soon,” Alyson observed.

  “I am to be in his place at the high table this evening, by his own order. Sericus too,” Fulk added negligently.

  This was against custom but Alyson did not want to ask for explanations from Fulk.

  “We have fought hard today,” he went on.

  Alyson saw the sheen of sweat on the man’s glib, triumphant face and answered with unusual spite, “For you it was hard. For my husband it is no more effort than blowing away the web of a spider. I have news for Guillelm.” She thought of the complaint of the laundress but put that aside to speak of the greater threat-something that could not wait. “There is a wolf at large, terrorizing the country close to Hardspen. It needs to be found and stopped, before a child is killed.”

  “I will tell him.”

  “You are not my messenger, and I will enter my own bedchamber.”

  “No!” Fulk raised his hands, blocking her way. “Do you not understand your own language?” he demanded. “My lord is exhausted”

  “Speak a little louder, Fulk. I do not think Guillelm heard that. If he did, I do not think he would be pleased.”

  His blue eyes widened, then narrowed, a sign of anger she was coming to recog
nize only too well. “To fight even in practice is a furious labor, something a female never understands.”

  Alyson smiled, conscious at this moment only of her dislike for Fulk. He must be an excellent warrior. Nothing else would have compelled Guillelm to favor such a man with any kind of preferment, but she would have him away from the door.

  “When you have undergone the trials of childbirth, Sir Fulk, then you may speak of labor to me,” she remarked sweetly.

  “What would you know of that? The women of your family bleed, not breed, each miscarriage proof of your sins, or drop only daughters. You doubtless will be as useless and barren.”

  Nasty and clever his voice was now no more than a whisper.

  “You would not say such things to me in the hearing of our lord,” Alyson said, struggling to keep the memory of her mother’s death at bay, terrified at the thought that perhaps the women of her family were somehow cursed, steeped in sin. “You would not dare”

  He snorted. “I would not need to! Guillelm will learn soon enough. That is, if he ever breaks his vow and troubles to bed you”

  Such affront was more than Alyson could bear. “You are without honor!” she blazed out, turning so Fulk would not see her cry. She stalked away. Reaching the stairs and out of sight of the landing, she ran.

  “Wait!” Guillelm called out urgently, but she was already gone, vanishing into the long evening shadows. He seized Fulk, slamming the man against the wall. “What are you doing here? Why did you not let her pass?”

  “I was about to, my lord! I swear.”

  Fulk lapsed into French, a bead of sweat trickling down his nose as he made excuses that Guillelm was too angry to hear. Struggling with a locked chest in the chamber that he could find no key to and could not open without force, he had not realized that Alyson was outside until he heard her raised voice.

  Abruptly, he released Fulk, thrust him off. “I have no time for you,” he said, cutting through the man’s declarations that he had caused the lady no offense. “We shall speak later.” Guillelm made the promise a warning as he followed his fleeing wife.

  Alyson retired to her former room, where her nurse Gytha took one look at her and silently guided the gawking Osmoda and the sharp-eyed maids out of the chamber. Alyson knew she had taken their sleeping place for the night but could hardly feel sorry for them-she was pitying herself. She threw herself onto the nearest bed and wept, pummeling the mattress with her fists, imagining the yielding pallet as Fulk’s smirking face. Why should women have always to give way to men? How could she reach Guillelm and tell him of the wolf?

  But then, why should she try? “I will catch the wolf myself,” she said, and cried again.

  Presently, she wiped her face and sought to compose herself. If Guillelm truly was weary, then she should go to supper in the great hall. If the lord of Hardspen could not show himself to his people, then the lady must. Yet it hurt her that Guillelm had not sent her a message to say he would not be dining in the hall, that he should tell Fulk and Sericus ahead of her. Or was he perhaps planning some surprise for her within their chamber? A sweet thought, but was that merely her own desperate hope?

  She heard a muffled cough outside and guessed that Gytha would be hovering by the door. She should at least tell her nurse to find a sleeping place, she thought, ashamed of her own self-seeking concerns as she unthreaded some of the ribbons from her plaits. To appear before Guillelm’s men in the great hall with such silly trinkets in her hair seemed foolish.

  There was a soft knock on the door. “Come in, Gytha,” she called out, but it was Guillelm who entered.

  “I did not know you were outside our chamber,” he was saying, stopping as he saw what she was doing. He grimaced. “Forgive me, I did not realize you were retiring.” “

  When he started to back away, Alyson understood. He thought she was sleeping here, in her old room, without him!

  “No, dragon,” she said quickly. “I was about to go to the great hall”

  I looked for you there first. I wish us to dine in private this evening, within our room. I know it is not the custom in England, but for one night, where would be the harm?”

  He smiled but seemed ill at ease.

  “What was Fulk saying to you just now?”

  That I was a barren, useless female on whom you would never get an heir. Alyson bit back the answer, clinging to the marvelous idea that Guillelm wanted them to eat in private. Slowly, she drew out one of her ribbons, hoping Guillelm’s fascination with her hair would distract him. “Is Gytha outside?” she asked in turn.

  “No. Shall I summon her? Do you wish her to attend you?”

  “No!” She had asked because she did not relish the idea of her nurse overhearing anything. “You could attend me-only if you have the time,” she added.

  Was her question a test, or mockery, as it would have been with Heloise? The last time he had been in a woman’s bedchamber it had ended in disaster. Scorning his own cowardice, Guillelm saw the ribbon in her hand tremble. She was shaking, ever so slightly. Nervous of him, or of her own perceived boldness? Pity warred with desire in him but he was guarded. He wanted neither to force his attentions on her, nor to make a mistake. The thought of last night scalded him with humiliation. He had no desire to repeat that experience.

  “Fulk and Sericus are sitting in our places in the hall tonight,” he explained.

  “Fulk and Sericus?” She gave him a teasing look, her face full of mischief but no fear. “Think that they will be peaceful together? And who will be the lord and who the lady?”

  Guillelm laughed, his fancy caught by that droll idea. “They will need to sort that between them, but ‘tis only for one night. So there is no need for us to stir from our chamber. Or indeed from here, if you wish.” When Alyson did not seem panic-stricken at the prospect, his hopes revived further. “What say you?”

  “That pleases me,” she said quietly. “I would be pleased to stay here with you, Guillelm.”

  “Excellent!” He need only put his head out of the door and shout for a page, summon servers, and their supper would be brought to them. It had been his plan: an intimate meal between them, at ease within their own chamber, but now he found his breath stuck in his throat. He did not want to speak to anyone else, or move even a finger-width farther apart from her.

  “Mother of God, you are beautiful.”

  She wound the ribbon around his wrist and, using it, gently pulled him closer. “I have made a vow, too” She blew softly across his bare forearm, warmly stirring each and every hair, the contact-that-was-not-contact making him shudder.

  “I have vowed to win you”

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, her mouth tasting of strawberries.

  Desire rammed through him, stronger than a siege engine. Stronger still was the marvelous delight that Alyson caredshe truly did. He wrapped his arms about her, embracing her, his lips finding the rapid pulse at her throat, the soft crease behind her ears.

  There were running feet on the stairs outside. “My lord!” A breathless page was shouting, “My lord Guillelm!”

  The lad pounded on past the room, racing in error for the main bedchamber.

  “My lady!” A maid hammered on the door. “My lady, you must come!”

  As one, Guillelm and Alyson lunged for the door and the maid tumbled in, teary-eyed and shivering.

  “What, girl?” Guillelm barked, and now she did burst into tears, sobbing into her hands.

  “You must come!” she cried, cringing away from Guillelm’s towering figure. “The news! Such terrible news “

  Alyson pushed past Guillelm and took the maid by the shoulders. “Hush, there, Mary. Catch your breath”

  “What news?” Guillelm demanded.

  The maid gulped and raised her head. “The Fleming has returned, my lord. The convent of St. Foy is under attack”

  Chapter 15

  Guillelm sprinted from the chamber, shouting for his sword and armor, leaving Alyson with the shivering ma
id.

  “What has happened?” Alyson asked, desperate to know more, but Mary could only cry against her shoulder.

  “Terrible thing, my lady. Dreadful!” Mary wailed, leaning so hard against her smaller, slighter mistress that Alyson almost lost her footing. She hooked a stool with her foot and dragged it closer, encouraging Mary to sit, put her head down, take deep breaths.

  “Easy, easy,” she soothed, ruffling the girl’s thin brown curls, trying to calm her while her own imagination was bursting with horrors. Mercenaries attacking a holy place: it was unthinkable, unspeakable. Unbearable, that her own sister should be there. What was England coming to, if a convent could be attacked? Was Tilda alive? Was she safe, undespoiled?

  Alyson dropped to her knees, praying, the Latin words freezing on her tongue as the maid moaned and blubbered, her nose running. Rising to her feet again, Alyson tore a wide ribbon from her own hair and pressed it into Mary’s cold fingers.

  “Here, Mary, blow your nose,” she said, gentle as if the maid were her daughter. “All will be well. Your lord is a great fighter; he will see the convent safe”

  She swiftly bound her hair, still with its many ribbons, into a single plait. “Pray, Mary, but be not so afraid. The convent is close; it will be saved” She looked about for her cloak. “Have you people at St. Foy’s?” she asked, wondering if that was the reason Mary seemed so undone. She slipped a cloak belonging to Gytha, short on her, its narrow trimming of rabbit fur riddled with moth, over her shoulders and tied the throat strings.

  Mary shook her head. She was quieting and less pale, regaining some of her native wit, too, for now she whispered, “I am sorry, mistress. I know your own dearly missed sister is there-would that she were not! But I have seen the handiwork of Flemish troops before”